


Training Days

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S1 throwback: Sam's a little out of shape after Stanford.  Dean takes care of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Days

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006.

**

After Colorado and before Wisconsin, Sam buckles under the weight of a casket, and they nearly blow a simple salt and burn gig.

“Dude,” Dean breathes when they’re both sprawled, aching and night-cool, on the soft grave dirt, “you are so out of shape, college boy.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam can hardly feel his arms they’re so sore, and he doesn’t even have the energy to turn his neck.

“I’m serious, Sammy, you’re gonna have to do better than that to stay in the business.”

**

Sam dreams about Jess in that white gown sometimes. She was normally more of a T-shirt and briefs kind of girl, kicking him out of the bathroom so she could shave, and occasionally helping him sniff test their laundry. She only ever wore the stupid thing when she wanted to put on a show for him, even though he liked her better in rumpled sweats with pillow creases lining her face.

She's fiddling with something on the stove when he comes up behind her, catching her easily around the waist. But his hands feel wrong, damp, and when he looks down, they're stained red. Jess twists around in his arms and her face is –

He startles awake with a shout, Dean's blurry grin swimming into view.

Dean tosses something at him – a wrinkled wad of clothing. Sam groans, his head still ringing, starts to protest, but Dean cuts him off.

"Come on, we're going for a run."

"Dean – it's like 3 o' clock in the morning."

But Dean's already out the door.

Running’s not so bad. It was the one thing that Sam had really kept up with at Stanford. He always knew how to run.

Maybe not in the early hours before when they always seem to do it _Dean, you Nazi_ , but he has legs and pace and breath enough for it.

“Hey, when are we ever running during a freaking lunch hour, Sammy?” Dean points out. “Gotta get you out of this regular sleep habits shit.”

“I hate you,” Sam tells him, doubled over, hands on his thighs. His hair curls damply around the nape of his neck, shorts riding low on his hips and catching uncomfortably on the sweat slick skin.

Sometimes they do run during the daylight, when there’s a handy park and the sun’s not too bad. Sam paces himself, waits until the heat pricks too much and his breathing’s a little off base before losing his shirt. It’s familiar, and comforting, the first burst of wind on his chest, sweat stinging amazingly cool for a second before his body warms again.

Dean always complains about his freakishly long legs, but he’s never far behind, sweat beading his temples, face just a little flushed. If there happen to be girls around, his shirt's usually gone, tucked casually _not at all_ in his waistband as he moves. The dead even beat of his breathing right behind Sam's ear is an old, warm comfort that he slides back into easily.

Sam likes watching him when he does fall behind. His brother hasn't changed much since four years ago, gained a little more muscle, his face losing the last of the soft, almost girlish edges he'd had during adolescence, but Sam's never really thought of Dean as a man until recently.

Straight, broad shoulders and narrow hips moving in front of him, never missing a beat.

Sam's only just getting used to running without music, but Dean's never needed it.

When they get back and fight half-heartedly over the showers, Sam falls dead asleep for a few more hours before they're on the next case. He doesn't dream.

**

After the mess with Rebecca and Zack, Dean chews on a pen and tells him, "Dude, you need to work on your sparring."

"Kicked your ass when you broke into my house, didn't I?" Sam shoots back, sleepy and annoyed.

"Whoa, I took you down in minutes, kiddo." Dean points the pen at him menacingly.

"Right before I had you flat on your back." Sam's only losing the last of his bruises from St. Louis, and he's really not looking forward to beating his brother's face in, again.

"Jerk."

"Why, Sammy," Dean ducks his head, lashes fluttering, "is that the way you like me?"

Sam gapes for a second, then clicks his mouth shut. "You are such an asshole."

"Tell me that _after_ you've won a match or two."

Dad enrolled them in an actual dojo once when they were little, but mostly they'd grown up looking for empty fields and lots. Sam remembers the time when Dad had almost been arrested for abuse of a minor when a nosy neighbor spotted him and an eleven year old Dean sparring in their backyard.

Sam knows he's gained a lot more reach since the last time they seriously went at it, but lost some strength too in his shoulders and arms. Dean's always been quick, moving in rolls and fluid sweeps. He's hard to keep up with and twice as annoying, mouth spewing non stop quips to add insult to injury.

He also fights dirty.

Sam goes down hard the first couple times – too slow there, overbalanced here. He always favored his left side too much when they were little, something Dad was constantly on his case about, and it's only gotten worse during the years with little to no practice.

Dean mercilessly goes for every weak spot he has, landing painful hits between his ribs, his thigh when he twists the wrong way, the side of his neck when he leans in too close.

Sam draws back, one hand around his tender side, breathing hard. He darts in when Dean moves right, thinks he's finally got it, sees the opening. Then Dean smirks at him, licking his lips, full mouth exactly like Jess' for a second, warm and wet. Sam stops, jerks back only in time to make a solid hit a glancing blow.

There's something warm growing in his gut, barely overshadowed by everything else that's smarting and aching. Dean helps him up, his hand hot on Sam's shoulder, breath damp against his ear. Sam doesn't even want to think about how fucked up it must all be.

He spends nights between jobs feeling like he's nine years old again, racked with growing pains, and Dean's here too for the second time, rubbing his sore legs, shoulders, grudgingly allowing him the first, hot shower.

Sam stays awake thinking of how to balance out his weak side, how Dean lists sometimes right after he's gotten a hit in, how best to use his reach. He tests out his thoughts in practice, and even grabs a few respectful grunts from Dean, sweat slicking his neck, hair a tufted mess.

It's weeks later, when they're tracking a werewolf in Tulsa, that Sam finally takes Dean down.

They find an open field that's sparse, but naturally padded with old grass and soil, sun shining and hot overhead.

The spar's gone on longer than usual, each of them taking their hits, and warily circling each other. Sam thinks there's sweat pricking every inch of his body, wants nothing more than to be done with the damn thing and in a cold shower. His shirt's plastered to his back, moving stiffly when he shifts. Dean doesn't look much better off, his face flushed high across the cheekbones, sweat curling in the hollow of his collarbone.

"Come on, Sammy," he drawls between ragged pants, "you gonna show me what you learned?"

Sam goes in quick, figures out how to pin Dean's arms with his longer ones, bring him to the ground the ground with a thud that knocks both their teeth in mouths. He's fallen full length along Dean, who's squirming against him, trying to get purchase on the ground to push him off.

Sam's transfixed by the line of Dean's throat, tan and slick in the light, by the ripple of muscle and bone he can feel against him, the hot streak of Dean's leg meeting his own thigh. He flushes with something that's not entirely exertion or the weather.

Dean takes advantage of his hesitation, struggles one arm free and elbows Sam sharply in the nose.

"Fuck!"

He falls back on the ground, hands going up to where he can feel blood streaming salty and warm over his lips. Dean's there almost immediately, cupping his face, turning his head from side to side.

"Jesus, Sammy. You ok? Is it broken?"

Sam doesn't think it is, gingerly rolls his damp shirt off and wipes the blood away. He's acutely aware of Dean's hand splayed across his ribs, skin burning under the touch. The other hand's tucked in his hair, supporting his head.

His eyes are swimming a little, and he leans into it, the calluses against his cheek, keeps going until he's slumped half against him, breathing hard, his lips a breath away from the corner of Dean's mouth.

His brother hitches his breath sharply for a second, then Sam's getting hauled to his feet, a hand firmly on his back.

There's a mumbled "good job, kiddo," before they head back to the motel.

Sam holds his discarded shirt to his nose, his other hand curled low over his stomach. He tries not to think about the insistent heat between his legs or the way Dean's shirt stretches tight and damp over his shoulder blades.

**

After that, Dean's a little more hands off, his eyes utterly unreadable when Sam catches him staring. He turns everything they do into some sort of exercise.

Sam ends up hauling a corpse back and forth a couple times across a field before Dean finally finds the spot where the original murder happened, a dark swipe of grass still visible days later.

Sam waves off a few flies, nose wrinkling. "We could have just left it in one place, found the spot, and _then_ moved it."

"Nah," says Dean casually. "You need to work on your upper body strength."

Then there's the girl who's moved into a haunted apartment. They trash the ghost, nice and slick – shot of rock salt, spray of gasoline, flames burning merrily as the thing vanishes. Then Dean offers Sam's services to help the girl move the rest of her boxes into her newly empty apartment. He's out the door to "grab a couple beers" before Sam can even begin to protest.

The girl, shy looking with red hair and glasses, peaks up at him hopefully, face pale and one hand absently playing with her hair.

Sam sighs, asks her where she wants the first box.

After Indiana, they up their daily miles so Sam comes back aching every time. Then Dean holds his feet down, makes him do crunches till he's sweating, cursing, straining against Dean's hand resting lightly on his knee.

One morning finds him doing pushups on his own. He's on his third set when a sharp slap stings across his stomach, forcing him to straighten.

"Bad form, dude," says Dean, hair rumpled from sleep, a beer already in hand despite the hour.

"How many sets you done?" he asks. Sam tells him.

Dean crouches by his side, watching Sam rise and fall, every muscle in his arms and shoulders strained and aching. He slams an unopened Corona right in front of Sam, just out of reach, so cold the condensation's dripping like on a goddamned commercial. It looks like heaven.

"Tell you what, you give me another three, and I'll give you the beer."

Then he pulls up a chair, knocks back a mouthful, and props his legs up on Sam's back.

" _Motherfucker,_ " Sam hisses, not willing to stop. "What the hell are you doing?"

He can _hear_ the smirk in Dean's voice. "Just making it a bit more challenging, bro. Nothing to worry about."

Sam grits his teeth, too out of breath to swear. He can feel the sour sweat slicking his back, wonders that Dean's stupid boots _digging into his spine_ don't just slide right off.

Dean helpfully keeps count, yelling at him every time his form drops. By the time he's done, Sam's ready to strangle him, but his whole body's too much of sore spot to try. He chugs the Corona in two gulps, wipes his mouth.

Dean's staring at him when he's done. He swallows thickly, eyes going from Sam's mouth to his throat, carefully avoiding the rest of his body, in nothing more than boxers.

Sam tosses the bottle aside, moves forward, ignoring his protesting muscles. He takes Dean's face, hand swallowing his cheek, moves in for a slow kiss, heart pounding wild.

There's a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

Dean, murmurs almost against his mouth, breath hot, "Sam, _Sam_ , what're you doing?"

Sam runs a hand down his arm, one along his thigh, feels him jump and tremble. "This is what I want, please. It's what you want." His heart's tripping, soreness almost forgotten. He hardly knows what he's saying anymore, but he's shaking from the pushups, and Dean is warm, familiar.

It's fucked all to hell, because he's hard, it's wrong, and Jess is still in the back of his head, her face expressionless. Dean's eyes darken with something that dries out Sam's mouth. He leans forward, hands coming up to frame Sam's face.

"You have no idea what I want," voice low, rough like it's being ripped out of him.

Then there's a mouth on Sam's, hot and hard, their heads coming together till their teeth clack, tongues thrusting out, hands grasping.

"Oh god," says Dean, "oh god, Sam, we – "

Sam shuts him up, tongue tracing his lips.

**

He's gained muscle weight since the fall, his shoulders filling out so he's less lanky than just lean. He slouches a little less, holds up on jobs. Everything comes back almost too easily, guns in his hands like they were meant to be there, reflexes waking up rather than being strained out of him from scratch.

Dean still doesn't give it up though. If anything, he gets crazier.

They go through their usual, punishing runs, legs pumping and breaths shot ragged in the air. Sam watches Dean do one handed push ups on dirty motel carpets, one arm tucked at the small of his back, legs spread wide for balance. He counts the breaths, the beats, like they're his own, runs a hand down the length of Dean's spine till he shivers, loses his rhythm.

Dean makes him carry the gear when at all possible, move furniture around when they don't need to.

They find what looks like an actual lake monster, the water shifting dark and quiet, ripples moving out across the surface. Dean has him swim across the whole lake, breath coming short, muscles burning, before telling him it's a hoax.

"Couple of kids, Sammy," his lips twitch. "Sorry." He doesn't look sorry at all.

Sam pushes him into the lake.

**

They're dealing with a penthouse poltergeist when Dean calls him, voice urgent.

"Sammy, elevator's shot. Damn thing got the cables. Take the stairs, quick."

Sam groans, turns for the stairwell reluctantly.

He's sweating, and shaking, shirt soaked through and legs unbelievably sore by the time he rounds the last corner to the twenty fifth floor. He steels himself though, knows he can't be useless when Dean needs his help.

Except Dean's lounging on an expensive leather couch, a beer mug full of what looks like champagne in his hands.

The apartment is wrecked, but Sam can see where the walls have already been purified.

Behind him, the elevator dings open. An elegant, older woman steps out with a tiny, delicate dog on a leash. She sniffs at the scene behind the open door before turning toward the entrance to the roof garden. Sam's pretty sure the dog's wearing Burberry.

He turns around, looks at Dean, who takes a gulp of champagne. His sleeves are rolled up, hair sticking up in tufts, his legs spread casually, cheap denim pale against the deep leather of the couch.

"Dean, what the _fuck_."

"Took you too long man," Dean raises his mug like it's a toast, "took care of the sucker while you were on like the second floor."

"And the elevator?" Sam's hands clench.

Dean laughs. "Guess these things just fix themselves?" Sam follows the next gulp, from the wet lips to the bared throat to the sharp edge of his collarbone.

He's at the couch before Dean even finishes, shoving the beer mug aside till its contents spill pearl pale on the decadent, white carpet. The apartment's trashed from the poltergeist anyway.

"Hey," says Dean, looking wistfully over at the fallen mug.

Sam grabs the front of shirt, hauls him up and crushes their lips together. His legs still ache, and he remembers that when he kicks Dean's thighs apart.

"You are such a bastard."

Dean smiles against his mouth, moving against him till Sam's pushed, slow and arching, onto the coffee table.

"Brat. I was just making sure you were following the rules."

Sam snorts, palms Dean's thigh. "What rules?"

"My rules, kiddo."

"Oh hell no." He pushes up against Dean, remembering how to take advantage of his height, not stopping until Dean's awkwardly crushed up against the couch. Sam likes how the leather looks against the soft skin at the back of his neck.

"How's that for upper body strength?" He whispers, biting at Dean's throat, picturing the plum dark bruise in his head.

Dean shoves back, giving himself a little leverage. Sam crashes backwards, barely missing the sharp edge of the coffee table this time, and they're rolling over the carpet, sending a plant crashing to the ground. This is an old game for them; only the rules have changed.

Sam wrestles on top again, every indignity from the past few weeks surfacing in his head at Dean's smirk. He reaches down, cups Dean's hardening cock through the denim, squeezes roughly till Dean almost squeaks into Sam's mouth.

"Make me take the stairs, huh?"

Dean twists up against him, mouth falling open. Sam traces the full lips with his fingers, slides two in. He flushes when Dean's lips stretch around them, sucking, imagines the salt taste of his own skin on Dean's tongue.

He thrusts hard, their hips crashing together, groaning. Dean's hands wander down his back, cupping his ass, dragging him closer. He doesn't stop lapping at Sam's fingers.

"Does this," Sam snaps his hips forward, "fucking count as a work out?"

Dean just smiles around his fingers, spreads his legs, his hands tightening on Sam's back, his ass, the press of each finger like a brand.

Sam grasps his neck, damp, probably from chasing the poltergeist around, tries to get a good grip, hold him in place. But Dean's never cooperated, twisting his hips up till their cocks are rubbing together through their jeans, and Sam almost falls forward moaning. His breath's ragged, his whole body thrumming with frantic energy. He tightens a hand on Dean's hip, lifting him up as he thrusts down, picking up the pace.

Dean kisses him, whispers in his ear, "Knew you'd be like this, Sam." His voice catches, soft and rough.

And that nearly sends him over, his hips working helplessly as he finds the soft, heated spot between Dean's legs, only a thin layer of denim between them. He bites at Dean's jaw, his throat, one hand undoing Dean's fly until his cock's jumping against his hand, hot and straining _no underwear, Dean?_

Dean chokes against him when he strokes hard, and then he's coming in spurts all over Sam's hand, his face open, brows drawn and mouth curled into a half gasp. Sam keeps going till the friction's too much, Dean's cock in his hand, his own trapped in his jeans, knowing, knowing he's _this_ close.

There's white behind his eyes, and white in front of him when he opens them, face crushed into the fancy carpet, Dean all hard muscles and honest sweat beneath him.

Sam gasps, suddenly unbelievably tired, tension he hadn't even realized was there released, his body tingling pleasantly.

"What the fuck are we gonna do?" Dean says into his collarbone.

"Blame this mess on the poltergeist," Sam murmurs.

He knows he's missing the point, but it's just him and Dean, like always, so he figures it doesn't matter.

**


End file.
